


Imma be the (snow) queen of your body parts

by Blake



Series: Ballet Direction [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anal Fingering, Ballet, Ballet AU, Cisgirl! One Direction, Dancewear, Ew, F/F, Fluff, Genderbend, Girl Direction, Harry is still 17, Lesbians, Minor Body Image Issues, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Rimming, Smut, but no major discussion, it just...takes place in a dancewear store, just cute girlfriends, leotards, there's not really any dancing in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 12:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Louis tries on the periwinkle one first. Her first instinct is that it’s surprisingly comfortable for something that clings so tightly. But before she can catch sight of her reflection to see how it looks, Harry springs up and presses her noisily against the locked door, looking down at her body and touching every inch of the leotard with her palms, scraping over any exposed skin with her fingers. It’s crazy how quickly Harry goes to her head. Louis has never felt so pretty.---Or, Louis needs to go to the dancewear shop, and Harry comes along to make it a more pleasant experience.





	Imma be the (snow) queen of your body parts

**Author's Note:**

> I was so touched by the response to my first girl direction fic, I wrote a sequel. I hope you all wanted the girls to have dirty sex, because that's what they did.
> 
> I tried to keep the body image issues to a minimum, but I felt it's just completely unrealistic to avoid it altogether. If you are very sensitive to that stuff, I encourage you to skip to the sex!
> 
> Thank you ever so much to Jen for the encouragement, the patience, and the amazing editing job.

No amount of Jet Glue can stiffen Louis’s pointe shoes enough to last through dress rehearsals. And no matter how many times Harry cheekily promises, _I can get you hard, Lou,_ and no matter how easily Louis’s body proves her girlfriend right, there’s no way that Harry can magically transform a sweat-softened, broken-shanked pointe shoe into something that can consistently support Louis’s foot.

It’s stupid how quickly she goes through shoes. She had stocked up generously online just a few months ago, but they die on her after only a week or two of use. _You’ve been using me for longer than that_ , Harry has teased more than once. Louis’s girlfriend is the Snow Queen of making bad sex jokes. She’s also very good at letting Louis use her mouth to come on.

Maybe if Harry weren’t so very good at that, Louis would have been less busy fooling around with her girlfriend every spare moment and would have realized that she was running low on pointe shoes _before_ the week of dress rehearsals, before it was too late to order more online.

Because Louis _hates_ going to the dancewear shop. It’s a land of judgmental once-overs, people telling you what size you should be wearing, people assuming that you’re there for your little sister because you don’t look like a dancer, the whole store stopping to look at your feet when you try on pointe shoes to see whether you’re biologically blessed with good arches. For moral support, Louis asks Veronica to come with her because Veronica notices every little thing in the world, which means that Louis can bitch to her afterward about what happened on their excursion without having to _explain_ to her what happened.

But Louis asking Veronica to come along leads to Veronica inviting Niall to come with them because she noticed that Niall’s feet have grown too wide for her current pair of pointe shoes. And Veronica inviting Niall leads to Liam getting weirdly jealous (which may have been part of Veronica’s intention), so she has to make it clear that _she’s_ the one who goes out shopping with Veronica (and spends most nights with Veronica and is _seeing_ Veronica but isn’t _girlfriends_ with Veronica). Liam’s halfway-possessive display leads to Harry feeling justified in getting fussy over Louis and Veronica planning a trip together (even though Niall’s presence is what made Liam jealous, not Louis’s). Harry getting fussy unfailingly leads to Louis pouring her heart out, explaining that she doesn’t want to mix her Favourite Person with her Least Favourite Place, which leads to Harry getting sappy and smiling and promising to make new, pleasant dancewear-shop memories, which leads to Louis getting sappy and agreeing to let her try.

By the time she and Harry have this conversation, Louis’s actually relieved by the promise of her own disaster-gay girlfriend being there to buffer her from the trio of disaster-gays she was doomed to spend the afternoon with. Honestly, lesbians are the worst. ( _Sorry, Liam, lesbians and bisexual girls. I didn’t mean to erase the identity of you, your not-girlfriend, and your not-girlfriend’s fuck buddy_.)

Harry pouts when the sales associate brings out the shoe, and Louis looks at the maker, size, and width but doesn’t try them on. “You’ll get to see them on me in about two hours,” Louis points out, exasperated and amused at her girlfriend for treating her potential pointe-shoe-fitting like a peep show. Harry bites her lip at the reminder, making a quiet hissing sound that doesn’t make it seem any less like Louis in pointe shoes is pornographic. “You also see me in them about two hours a day,” Louis reminds her.

“I know,” Harry sighs dreamily, eyes wet like she’s overwhelmed. She takes the shoes from Louis and gently, almost ceremoniously, slides them into their little shoe bag before handing them back to the shopgirl. Louis still isn’t exactly comfortable with Harry’s worship-like attentiveness, but it certainly makes her stomach flutter.

Standing hip to hip, they half-watch as Niall gets fit in a wider pointe shoe under the supervision of the shopgirl and Veronica. Liam chimes in with her opinion occasionally, but it isn’t passive-aggressive or tense at all. Louis’s relief that no one is acting like a jealous twat is palpable. She sometimes forgets that, aside from being disaster-gays, the girls in her friend group are truly friends.

Louis’s only _half-_ watching Niall’s struggles because her gaze keeps floating back to Harry, who’s attention is being pulled by the mannequins and walls full of leotards behind them. Harry’s so pretty that Louis could look at her all day. In fact, she has already spent entire evenings looking at her, lying beside her and smiling stupidly in the lamplight of Harry’s bedroom, watching her lips as she talks, marveling that she gets to kiss them after admiring them for so long.

Naturally, Louis notices when Harry peels away to wander off toward the leotards. Niall’s still ankle-deep in pointe-shoe decisions, so Louis opts to follow her girlfriend’s lead.

“You would look so good in this, Lou,” Harry marvels when Louis joins her at the sales racks. Louis’s breath catches every time Harry says she looks _good_ or _sexy_ or anything along those lines, so her breath catches before she even looks at the thing in Harry’s hands. Which is a high-necked, mesh-backed, overall very geometrical and contemporary-looking black leotard.

“Yeah?” Louis asks in response to Harry thinking that she’d look good, not really imagining wearing the actual garment.

Harry bites her lip, humming, “Mmmmhmmmm.” 

And Louis believes her.

“Ooh, and this one, too,” Harry whispers, flitting away to a nearby rack. Before following her, Louis grabs the black leotard in her size and slings it over her arm.

Harry’s eyes go wide when she sees Louis approaching with the leotard in hand, like Louis has just given her a present, like she’s promised to suck her off instead of just tacitly agreeing to try on a leotard for her. The power goes straight to Louis’s head like elation.

Sagely deciding not to comment, Harry ducks her head to examine the next piece of clothing that she’s set her sights on. Louis lets out a breath, relieved to not have to talk about her eagerness to give Harry every little thing she wants, even if it involves Louis trying on leotards in her precious free time. She spent too much of her self-hating puberty and adolescence in form-fitting lycra blends to take pleasure in wearing them when she’s not required to, but apparently wanting to make Harry happy wins out over her usual preferences.

“In periwinkle? Please, god, you’ll look amazing,” Harry begs, bringing out a simple pale blue piece with a pinch front and elbow-length sleeves. Louis has no idea why Harry wants to see her in this, but she’s starting to come to terms with the idea of Harry thinking she looks cute in certain outfits, so she shrugs, deciding to humour her.

Hanging on a nearby rack is a delicate peachy pink thing with cap sleeves made of lace. Harry looks so cute in cap sleeves and especially cute in peachy pink. “Harry,” Louis says, half-breath and half-fondness, “I’ll try that one on if you do this one.”

Harry pulls the periwinkle leotard off the rack and covers her mouth with it. “But it looks so expensive,” she protests, muffled, without letting Louis see whether she’s smiling.

Louis grabs the price tag and glances at it but doesn’t really absorb its meaning. “Buuuuut it’s pretty, like you.”

Harry nearly hits herself in the face with the hanger of the garment she’s hiding behind. She’s ridiculously dramatic, at least in the moments when she’s not ridiculously straight-faced. It’s stupidly endearing. “I could never.”

Louis can tell—she can just _tell_ —that making Harry try on this expensive, pretty leotard will make Harry feel _good_. She’s started to develop a sixth sense about such things, riding on heart-thudding instinct and picking up on the clues. Like when Harry protested that she didn’t need a drink with her meal, Louis brought her a Coke anyway, and Harry blushed and wouldn’t stop smiling. Or when Harry was frustrated with trying to twist her hair into a bun and insisted she didn’t need help, Louis grabbed her hair and pulled it into a tight knot anyway, and Harry blushed and wouldn’t stop smiling.

Louis takes the peachy pink leotard off the rack, and Harry blushes and won’t stop smiling.

She worries, sometimes, about pushing Harry’s boundaries, about being Older and taking advantage of Harry’s respect to make her do things that are uncomfortable, such as trying on expensive, pretty leotards. But she reminds herself of the times Harry started to squirm in agitation when they were snogging, and Louis could tell the difference between agitation and arousal, so she stopped to check in and then helped Harry with the coursework she was anxious about finishing instead. And really, that had only happened twice. Harry was much more eager to kiss all the time than she was to revise for exams.

Louis reminds herself of this and acknowledges the powerful thudding in her heart that feels so different from the feeble ricochet it gives off when she feels as though something’s off. She holds the peachy pink leotard up against her chest, hugging it fiercely, drawing Harry’s eyes down her body.

Feeling a bit braver, Louis looks for the most expensive-looking, extravagant leotard that she can find on the way to the fitting room, eager to have Harry try on more things that make her blush. It turns out to be a two-tone, seafoam green and white camisole with mesh and a dozen different straps. It looks like a pastel piece of bondage gear, and Louis instantly imagines it cutting into the flesh of Harry’s shoulders. She pulls it off the rack with no hesitation.

As soon as the fitting room door is closed, Harry kisses her. It’s firm and wet and simple, a hand on her cheek, a girlfriend’s kiss, not a shaky, searching, _are you real?_ kiss. Louis feels steady, found, real, and _loved_. Three weeks in, and she’s already wondering exactly how much Harry means it whenever she murmurs _I love you_ in between bouts of laughter.

Louis sneaks a hand up between them and under their kiss to stroke a thumb across Harry’s sharp jawline, thinking, _I love you_.

They both exhale, Harry pulling away first. Louis barely gets a glimpse of her flushed, smiling face before the periwinkle leotard is thrust into her face.

“Okay,” she sighs, taking all four hangers and placing them on the nearby hook. Harry sits on the little bench by the mirror, legs spread out across half of the space available in the small fitting room. Louis looks up the length of them to the crotch of her blue jeans, where the dye is so much darker than the rest of the denim, where she’s flushed darker than anywhere else.

Louis pulls her jumper over her head and drops it on Harry’s face, prompting a snort. By the time Harry yanks it off, Louis has kicked off her Vans and started pushing down her joggers.

“Looks really good so far,” Harry says in the flat tone she uses when she’s trying to be funny, which earns her a pair of joggers to the face.

Louis tries on the periwinkle one first. Her first instinct is that it’s surprisingly comfortable for something that clings so tightly. But before she can catch sight of her reflection to see how it looks, Harry springs up and presses her noisily against the locked door, looking down at her body and touching every inch of the leotard with her palms, scraping over any exposed skin with her fingers. It’s crazy how quickly Harry goes to her head. Louis has never felt so pretty.

She only starts to feel scandalized when Harry slides her hands up under the legline of the leotard to grab the back of her pants and _pull up_. She moans in response to the gather and tug that moves all the way from her pubic bone to her arsehole. After a moment, she forces the sound into a laugh, “Stretching it out to accommodate my curves, are you?” It’s meant to lovingly shame Harry for stretching out the merchandise, but it comes out somewhat self-deprecating. The dancewear shop must be affecting Louis’s attitude more than she realized.

Harry’s hands move on to take full grips of her bum. She looks carefully at Louis, a knowing look, yet cautious. “Anything to get at this glorious thing,” she whispers before collapsing forward into Louis’s neck. “God, Louis,” she whines, squeezing her handfuls as she so often does. Louis watches herself grin in the mirror. “I love your arse so fucking much.”

Their next kiss rattles the door, and Louis closes her eyes against her reflection. She’s lost in the wet heat of Harry’s lips and breath until they pull away.

“Is everything going well in there, loves?” asks a bright, clear voice on the the other side of the door. Louis very abruptly orientates herself—messily snogging a girl in the changing room of a prim dancewear shop, just a few feet away from the sales manager who fit five-year-old Louis in her first pair of ballet slippers.

Her first instinct is to panic, but Harry has beaten her to it, judging by her enormously wide eyes. _We’ve been caught_ is what they’re both thinking, but Louis’s heart surges in a protective instinct, and she pulls herself together quickly. “Yes, we’re just fine, thanks,” she assures her, as evenly as she can manage. Harry looks at her like she’s mad, or brilliant, or both.

“Alright, dears, just let us know if you need anything,” the older woman calls out as she walks away, sounding as sincere and unsuspicious as she does with every customer she checks in on. _We haven’t been caught_.

Louis and Harry break into giggles in the same instant, but even as she laughs and her girlfriend’s marble-statue face dimples in delight, Louis’s mind whirs with thoughts. They’re two girls in a fitting room, nothing to bat an eye at. If one of them had been a boy, would the manager have been suspicious of mischief? If Louis had been groping Harry in the shop instead of merely flirting with her, how little benefit of the doubt would they be given in here? Is it not blatantly apparent to everyone they walk past that they’re two girls who fuck each other? Why does that thought make her ache, even when their invisibility just saved their arses from reprimand?

She’s thinking of all the times that she’s been in changing rooms with girls before as Harry lightly strokes across the neckline of the leotard, her touch shockingly soft. Louis remembers trying on bras with her friend Hannah when they started needing them, remembers how, even then, she knew the way that her heart raced when she picked at Hannah’s bra straps and mockingly straightened the cups over Hannah’s nonexistent breasts made her different. Made her different from Hannah, who seemed infinitely comfortable and neutral when giving her opinion on which bra made Louis’s tits look bigger.

Harry’s knuckles brushing over her sternum say _I’m the same_ , and it makes Louis’s heart feel so big that her breath shudders against Harry’s hand.

“Your turn,” Louis whispers, instead of spilling out all her secrets.

It takes some time and maneuvering to remove Harry, who’s apparently quite adamant about making the most of their invisibility. When Harry finally realizes that Louis wants her to try on the strappy seafoam leotard, she bites her lip, fiddles with the waistband of her jeans, and gulps out a nervy, “Erm.” 

Louis reaches for Harry’s loose jumper and starts to pull it up, ecstatic with the difference between undressing Harry in a fitting room and undressing Veronica, who’s very pretty but for whom Louis has no real attraction, and who has an annoying habit of getting weird and lazy and deciding _not_ to try on the things they brought to the fitting room precisely for the purpose of trying on.

“I can’t,” Harry announces, even as she lifts her arms to assist Louis in the stripping process.

“You don’t have to pay anything to try it on.”

“It’s…not that,” Harry stutters, a few curls falling from her ponytail as she shakes her head free of her jumper. Louis loses herself in the curves of Harry’s sports bra and the softness of her stomach, so it takes a moment for her to hear Harry’s next whispered words: “I forgot to put on pants.”

When she hears that, Louis goes still, her eyes dropping to the crotch of Harry’s jeans. “You _forgot_ ,” she echoes mindlessly, her hands going hot where they’re pressed to Harry’s sides. Harry isn’t wearing anything beneath those jeans, Louis could put her hands beneath that denim and _feel_. She has felt Harry many times, but something about knowing this opportunity is _so close_ makes her knees weak and her mouth wet.

“It was a bad idea,” Harry whimpers, settling her shaking hands onto Louis’s head. “It’s...I’m…really messy.”

Louis chokes on her own breath. Harry’s slicking up her thighs with nothing to catch it but the inside of her denim jeans, she most likely has been the entire time they’ve been in this fitting room, just inches away from Louis. It feels like something Louis should have been able to notice, somehow. She tightens up and throbs just at the thought of it, then once again at the thought of being able to reach out and touch.

Harry’s hands clutch weak fistfulls of Louis’s short hair as Louis moves her hand to the top button of those criminal jeans. “Can I feel?” she asks, voice raspy. There are so many things she still can’t believe: that she gets to touch Harry in the light and in the dark and whenever Harry wants her to; that touching Harry feels _so good_ ; how much sex you can squeeze into the first three weeks of a relationship; that Harry gets so wet, so wet that it scares Louis sometimes because it’s so much more than she knew was biologically possible.

“Yes,” Harry breathes out shakily. Louis can’t be bothered to unfasten anything, so she shoves her hand under her waistband, sliding past every blindingly hot diversion along the way just to reach the inside of Harry’s thigh. Seeing herself jammed forearm-deep in Harry’s jeans makes her feel absolutely delirious, and it takes her several seconds to realize that she may also be compromised by the fact that Harry’s thighs are sticky-wet and sliding beneath her fingers.

She really needs to get Harry home. Like, right now.

In her haste to evacuate the dancewear shop, Louis puts her clothes on over the leotard and only realizes it once she has stormed out of the fitting room to face the amused stares of her friends. “Louis,” Harry murmurs shyly, a step behind her. “You forgot something.”

Liam, of all people, pinches the strip of periwinkle that’s showing between her top and her joggers and lets it snap back. “Never took you for a shoplifter,” Liam jokes. “What would your little sisters think?”

Louis considers saving her pride by simply buying the leotard, but she can’t afford the twenty quid when she’s already about to spend her entire savings on shoes. She retreats back to the fitting room, changing as quickly as she can to get back out there and rescue her awkward girlfriend from the prying, teasing inquiries of their friends. 

She emerges to find Harry talking to the store owner about ribbons, elastic, stitch kits, and, apparently, patterns for crocheted dog sweaters. Liam pokes at Louis’s now-bare midriff, but Louis shoves her off in order to pay attention to how fucking charming Harry is with old ladies. It’s disgusting, really. Louis’s own mum prefers Harry, and she’s only known her for three weeks. One would think that the mother of a teenage daughter might react negatively to someone suddenly coming over every day, taking her teenage daughter’s virginity, keeping her teenage daughter up late, raiding her fridge in the middle of the night, and creating a great deal more dirty laundry because of all the sex with said teenage daughter. But Louis’s mum makes tea for Harry in the morning and asks her to come to dinner. She has even started making sure that they have Harry’s favourite digestives in the pantry. Harry is magic.

All five girls make their purchases quickly. Harry’s the only one slowing them down, as she makes a point of telling the old lady to come to their _Nutcracker_ performance because, “My girlfriend is the saltiest Spanish Chocolate ever...so salty.” Louis’s face goes up in flames because, three days ago, Harry made her sort of…squirt?...for the first time, and Harry had licked it off her hand and then kissed her, and Louis had been stunned that something so salty could ever come out of her body.

She doesn’t look up until her new shoes are safely tucked away in her bag, at which point Harry startles her with a chaste kiss. Nervously, Louis looks over at the shop manager, who she assumes will be horrified to put two-and-two together and realize what was going on in her fitting room. But the woman smiles kindly, as though she thinks their kissing is cute and inoffensive. Louis’s floored, yet again, by Harry’s magic.

Of course, Harry’s magic doesn’t work on Veronica, Liam, and Niall, who all think they’re gross and excessive. The bus ride back is excruciatingly full of Veronica’s knowing glances, Liam’s leers, and Niall’s innuendo. Louis wonders if they can smell it on them, if they can smell what’s on Harry’s thighs, on Louis’s hands. _God,_ she thinks, rubbing the back of her neck, they’ve probably smelled like sex nonstop for three weeks. It’s not as though this incident should stand out.

Niall snickers when Louis presses the button to request the stop closest to her house. “Not coming to the studio with us, then?” she cackles, knowingly.

“Gotta finish what you started in the changing room where toddlers try on their tutus, yeah?” Veronica snipes.

“She needs help stitching on the new ribbons,” Harry explains loftily. It’s not _quite_ a lie. Louis hates sewing.

“Oh, and also,” Louis declares, as the bus begins to slow down and she stands up to shrug her bag onto her shoulder, “I can make my girlfriend come five times before class starts, which is more than you lot can say, so, yeah, cheers.”

Harry looks like she has a hard time standing up, and the heady flash of bright green in her eyes says that it’s not just the bus braking to a halt.

Veronica and Niall huff out matching scoffs of dismissal or disgust. Liam just sniffs, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Thankfully, the whole family is out at work or school, so Louis gets to make Harry come for the first time against the entryway wall. She can’t help it, her fingers itch to push past the cooled, sticky smear to the molten wetness beyond and shove it back inside of Harry with the tips of her fingers. They both shudder, stumbling among the bags they’ve just dropped and the piles of shoes kept beside the door as Harry pitches into the wall and Louis follows, flattening her fingers up against every ridge and fold and rubbing them all until they’re coated. Louis likes to just feel her like this, every surface painted wet from her hand, her clit plump and perfect to rub, twitching and easy to read.

Louis has to have her, and she has her coming in what feels like thirty seconds, but it might be longer. She pushes her arm deeper into Harry’s jeans to touch up inside as she pulses, the hot wet grip around her fingers making Louis throb in her pants.

“One down,” she groans out, her throat stickier than expected.

Harry’s gorgeous face is a picture of shock, as though she walked through a door fully clothed and had an orgasm within sixty seconds, which is kind of what she did. She laughs before she smiles, but when she smiles, it’s enormous and sloppy under her fiercely red cheeks. “You can’t…,” she pants, pausing to catch her breath, “Can’t make me…four more times.”

That might be true. The most they’ve managed so far is four in one night, and Harry probably knows her own body and its limits better than Louis does. Which is a bit flustering, since all evidence points to the fact that Harry also knows _Louis’s_ body better than Louis does. 

And that’s probably why Harry’s panting and giggling has dropped into a low, smug growl as she pulls Louis’s hand out from her still-fastened jeans. “You, on the other hand.”

Louis’s heart flutters in excitement, though her inexperience still makes everything feel a bit panicky. She isn’t used to not feeling in control of things, especially her own body. “You can’t,” she argues petulantly against Harry’s neck, where she’s burying her face. She probably could; Harry makes her do all sorts of crazy things. “I won’t even make it through _barre_ tonight if you put my quads through five orgasms,” she smiles to herself, pressing her nose to Harry’s pulse, which smells impossibly good. “You know how shaky I get,” she tacks on, softer, but still petulant.

Louis loses track of time on the trek to her bedroom because Harry keeps kissing her, and Harry’s kisses make time run strangely. They knock into the side of the narrow staircase several times, and Louis so completely loses herself fucking her tongue into Harry’s hot mouth that she doesn’t realize Harry is bent backward over the rail until she pulls back and Harry clutches hard to her biceps, smiling sheepishly as Louis drags her back to safety, still so breathtakingly windswept from the November chill.

When they stumble into the bedroom, Harry’s kneading hungrily at Louis’s arse and whining. Louis used to laugh nervously when Harry would get like this, but she has grown to feel hot with anticipation when Harry gets handsy. “Can I?” Harry whispers, looking meaningfully into Louis’s eyes. She doesn’t need to say anything more.

“’Course you can,” Louis replies, all thrilled nerves and false exasperation. Why would she deny her girlfriend her apparently favourite thing in the world—if the first time last weekend and the three times since then are anything to go by—especially if it feels so indescribably good?

So she gets face-down on the unmade bed, lifts her hips up to help push her joggers and pants down her thighs, and lets Harry pull them the rest of the way off. She bites her pillow in anticipation, but the wait isn’t long. There’s a kiss of cool air as Harry pulls her cheeks apart and then the heat of Harry’s plush mouth pressing so softly against her bum, her loud, self-indulgent moan vibrating through Louis’s tailbone and up through her spine.

The thing is, Harry fucking _loves_ eating her out, which seemingly involves sucking on her arsehole as hungrily as she licks out her cunt. And apparently Louis fucking loves it as well because, just as always, her vision goes white, she grinds her arse up into Harry’s face until Harry starts to sound like she’s suffocating, and then she flattens out like a nervy plank when Harry’s tongue winds up inside her, making her feel empty and full at the same time. She loves the mindless caress of Harry’s stretched lower lip over her other hole, the way her spit collects and spills until she can feel it dripping from her clit onto the sheets beneath her. It matches her own drooling into the pillow.

Louis doesn’t groan until Harry pulls away to grab a soft, huge bite-full of arsecheek and breathe hot gusts out across her crack. “Taste alright?” she huffs out against her pillow, because she still gets self-conscious, no matter what part of her Harry’s mouth is on. 

Harry’s only answer is to moan as her face buries itself in Louis’s arse yet again. A month ago, Louis would never have believed that she could feel so delicious. She twists to get a hand in Harry’s hair and pushes that wet mouth down harder into her. “Fuck me,” she whines, too out of her mind to know if it sounds like an exclamation or a request. She pulls Harry’s hair tie out and sighs when the curls tumble across her thighs. There’s a gentle touch at her cunt, all wet from Harry’s mouth, and Louis hikes a knee up to spread her hips and let Harry in. The skin of her knee burns from the drag across her cheap sheets, her body clenching and then opening up eagerly around Harry’s tongue and fingers as she fucks in.

Louis’s moaning freely into her pillow, which she doesn’t fully realize until several minutes later, after her throat is already hot with it and her mind is able to process anything beyond _fuck, good_. Harry’s fingers are an insistent, needy pressure inside her, a careful kneading where the knuckles of her other two fingers fit up against the rest of her. Harry’s got _all_ of her.

She bites Louis’s cheek again, carefully, and wipes her drool-wet face all over it. Louis feels filthy. “Harry,” she gasps, moving both hands to clutch in the sheets near her waist.

“Is it good?” Harry asks, sounding so desperate for an answer, even though she must be able to feel Louis coming apart at the seams underneath her.

“It’s so good,” Louis tries to say. Whether or not every word makes it out is a mystery, due to the ringing in her ears. Harry keeps going, though, which is a good sign. There’s a terrible pressure building up low in her pelvis, like something about to break.

Coming out of nowhere that Louis’s conscious of, Harry’s other hand winds itself over her hips and pubic mound to rub insistently at her clit, to rub the rest out, and Louis’s whole world drops out from under her as she comes on Harry’s hands, spreading her hips wider to buck down onto one hand, then the other. She floats, thinking it’s over, and then twitches, repeats. Harry’s hands hold her from all angles, like something precious, until she’s brought back down.

Of course, as soon as Harry’s hands pull back to wherever they came from, her tongue is back in Louis’s arse.

Louis reaches back blindly to smack her in the head. She makes contact on the third time. “What are you doing?” she groans.

Always responsive, Harry lifts up her head, leaving Louis’s crack and everything else wet and suddenly cool, exposed in the air. “Sorry,” Harry murmurs, tentatively nuzzling across the curve of Louis’s arse. Louis allows it. “You know...,” she says, clearly the start of something, as she licks all the way across the curve of Louis’s cheek, from her inner thigh to the outside of her hip. She doesn’t finish her sentence.

“I _don’t_ know,” Louis grits out, feeling her body pulse more fluid. She’s getting the sheets so messy. She can’t remember the last time she put them in the wash, and these are the sheets they were in when Harry made her come all over her hand. Louis grinds down against the damp spot beneath her. It feels so good.

One of Harry’s criminal fingers slides down the bottom of her spine, then down further. Louis can feel her short nails against the thin, swollen skin of her arsehole, can feel her teeth graze gently at the fleshiest part of her cheek. “I keep thinking...how good your arse would look,” she muses, her finger circling maddeningly around Louis’s hole. It tickles, burns, like Louis needs _more_ , somehow. “With, like, a strap-on harness.”

Louis’s hole sucks stupidly at the tip of Harry’s finger, even as the rest of her freezes. She’s not even sure what Harry’s saying. “You mean you wanna fuck me with a strap-on?” she asks, still not moving, not sure how to feel about this conversation.

“No!” Harry yelps, pushing the bulk of Louis’s cheek up with her nose. She really, really loves Louis’s arse. “I mean, that’s not what I mean, really.”

Louis works to process her words while Harry exhales across her inner thigh, her finger continuing to dally like she’s leading up to something. Louis wishes they were kissing right now. She wishes they were kissing most of the time. “You want _me_ to?” she asks then, the verbal part of her brain understanding before she can feel anything about the revelation.

“You’d make me come so good on your cock, I know it,” Harry positively _whines_ against her tailbone.

Another burst of fluid gushes out of Louis as Harry whimpers, gathers it up with her fingertip, and brings it back to swirl around her arse. It’s absolutely maddening. “You can put it in,” Louis says, breathless, the verbal part of her brain catching up once again before the rest of her does. She just...needs _more_ , even though she doesn’t know what that means.

But Harry slides her finger inside her arse with no hesitation, and every nerve ending that burned out when Louis came instantly lights up fiercely hot. She clenches, holds her breath, and lets her arse be filled with Harry’s long finger. Her clit throbs against the sheets. “Oh, god,” Harry moans.

The heat of her face disappears from Louis’s bum, so Louis turns her head to see Harry sitting up, her jeans still on. “Got what you wanted?” she asks, as though she were condescending to let Harry finger her arse, as though it wasn’t what she was itching for and yet a hundred times more electric than what she thought she was itching for.

Harry nods, her messy curls spilling freely over her shoulders. Louis closes her eyes and relaxes her neck when Harry’s other hand splays across her arse cheek. “The straps,” Harry whispers. She sounds so out of breath. “I’d die if I could feel your arse under them.” She squeezes a handful of Louis’s bum for emphasis. “Look so good.”

Louis keeps her eyes closed because this is all a lot to process. She always thought strap-ons weren’t really her thing; Veronica has been raving for months about how _amazing_ Niall is with one, but Veronica likes dick, and Louis doesn’t. And she never really thought about the…uh, apparatus itself. She thought the point would be to have as real a cock as possible, not to have straps digging into the flesh of your inner thighs and arse. But, like… _you’d make me come so good on your cock, I know it, you’d make me come so good on your cock, I know it, you’d make me come so good on your cock, I know it_ , keeps playing in her head, and it makes her body thrum like the whole thing is on fire.

Or maybe it’s the pressure of Harry’s finger, prodding around curiously and perfectly against the walls inside of her, hitting more nerves than she ever knew she had. “Oh, god,” Harry moans again. “Never gotten to do this before. Is it okay?”

Louis hums into her pillow, “You’re amazing, angel.” She swallows her spit, bites her lip, and opens her eyes to blue cotton, closing them again before finally finding the courage. “Want me to fuck you like that on my cock?”

“Ohhh,” Harry groans, her finger taking up a rough rhythm. It doesn’t feel so much like she’s moving in and out, it’s more like she’s pushing all of Louis’s flesh around, and Louis can’t believe how good it feels. “Yes, god, _Louis_.” There’s a whimpering sound, and Louis’s fairly certain it’s coming from both of them. “Can I suck your cock?”

It’s not until Harry’s thrusts get clumsy and slow that Louis realizes she means _right now._ “Mmmhmm,” she hums, rolling onto her side with one leg up in the air. Harry doesn’t let her finger slip out as she gets Louis onto her back and settles down between her wide-splayed hips. Louis sort of thought that maybe Harry’s finger only felt good in that one position, but she feels even better in her arse like this, with Harry’s lips flushed a dark pink, her pretty green eyes dark and drunk and fiery all at once.

“I’d suck your cock so good, bet I could fit so much of you in,” Harry slurs, her lips brushing over Louis’s pubic hair. Her finger pushes up, and Louis bucks down against it, shocked by how good it feels. Harry kisses across the crease of her thigh, drifting closer until she sticks her tongue out like she does when she eats and licks over the wrinkled, swollen flesh of Louis’s hood. Louis bucks up, her body strung out and stuck between two incredible extremes. Finally, Harry’s lips purse carefully before descending to close around Louis where she’s throbbing, and Louis _gasps_.

She always thought that using a strap-on would mean giving into, like, heteronormativity or something, like…admitting that sex can’t happen without a dick in a vagina. But god does she want to be able to _see_ Harry’s mouth split open over her—the way that she’s split over her now, but not where she can _see_. She wants to fill up Harry’s mouth, make Harry’s mouth feel full of _her_ , grab hold of Harry’s hair, like she’s doing now, and push Harry’s head down harder, like she’s doing now. She wants Harry to grab hold of her arse caged in by whatever strap-on straps look like, and _god_ does she want to make Harry come on her cock. Harry comes _so hard_ when she’s fucked, and Louis’s hips are stronger than her hands…she could fuck Harry _so good_.

Harry’s finger pushes up in a faster rhythm, and that’s what makes Louis realize how close she is. She’s lost in looking at Harry’s face buried down where she can’t see, her eyelashes flickering up every so often to offer up a flash of green before rolling back down with a moan.

Louis pulls Harry’s hair and holds her firmly in place as she fucks up into the wet plush of her mouth, so fucking _heartbreakingly_ close to coming _so hard_. 

And then she does. Comes, pulsing in the hungry suck of Harry’s mouth, convulsing down on her finger, riding out Harry’s elongated moan, and feeling herself pushing out fluid to drip down her crack. 

She’s not even sure that she’s done coming yet when Harry moves up to kiss all over her face. “Oh, my god,” Harry rasps, between kisses. Her gust of breath tastes different, and Louis finds herself leaning toward it. She wants to be kissed. She’s still floating, but she wants Harry’s lips on hers.

She gets it. When Harry’s tongue dips inside, she remembers why she tastes different—that’s the taste of her _arse_ mixed in with everything else. And, god, is that even sanitary? Does she even care? She kisses Harry so hard that her chest feels lighter than air once again.

There’s a rough scraping feeling between her thighs, and she nearly pushes Harry completely off her. “You’re still wearing your jeans,” she comments, realizing it only as she says the words. How could she still have Harry fully clothed?

“Yeah,” Harry says, as though she doesn’t care at all. She wouldn’t. She’s not the one with her entire sopping, raw self chafing against denim.

Louis’s eyes grow wide, horrified by how insensitive she’s been. “And no pants?!” She knows how much Harry grinds and thrusts when she’s turned on, and it’s simply awful that she’s been grinding and thrusting against bare denim when Louis’s _thighs_ have been here the whole time. 

“S’all right,” Harry promises to Louis’s pulse point. “Made you come twice.” Louis can hear the giant smug smirk in her voice.

“And that’s the end, no more!” she declares with all the energy left in her body. She’s not going to make it through _barre_ tonight _,_ no matter that it was only _two_ orgasms.

Harry pulls up to grin stupidly down at her. “I also made myself come twice.”

After gauging for Harry’s seriousness, Louis reaches down and slaps her arse through her jeans. “In your jeans?!” she gasps, appalled and offended. If Harry was going to come three times, it should have been _her_ making it happen.

Harry shrugs, bringing her leg from between Louis’s legs and propping it up on Louis’s thigh. “Couldn’t help m’self.”

Louis refrains, for the moment, from trying to recall when and how these two orgasms supposedly happened. For the time being, she enjoys the fact that Harry’s jeans are no longer grinding against uncomfortable places on her body. Though they appear to be continuing to grind against uncomfortable places on _Harry’s_ body, as her hips keep circling down onto Louis’s, and god only knows what kind of chafing is happening within.

“So,” Louis says, letting both her hands find homes on Harry’s clenching arse. “That makes…five orgasms, between us?”

Harry beams innocently, her hips still circling. “Just as promised,” she agrees, sounding as delighted as any incredibly morbid person can sound.

Louis suddenly imagines how they would be lined up if Harry’s jeans were off and Louis was wearing a harness. Harry could grind down on her cock. Louis’s still somewhat amazed that, even in the light of post-orgasm day, the thought of Harry wanting to be fucked by her _cock_ doesn’t make her feel like less than enough.

Harry pouts spectacularly. “Well,” she murmurs, shifting her weight on her hands, which are planted on the sheets on either side of Louis’s head. They really should put these in the wash. “I don’t come as hard when it’s not you. So, I’d say s’more like three…and a half, all together.”

Louis squeezes her handfuls before dragging her fingers up underneath the draping hem of Harry’s jumper, Harry’s stomach quivering as she goes for the button of her fly. “I see.”

“If…,” Harry says, her voice catching as Louis pulls her zipper down. “We have time?”

Louis has no idea what time it is, and their phones are probably still in their bags where they dropped them by the front door. Her quads feel like dead things attached to her body, and the idea of Veronica giving her a hard time at ballet class about being so obviously well-fucked sounds like a terrible waste of time. They could always skip _barre_ and just show up to rehearsal; there’s no way she can drag herself away from Harry Styles in her bed.

“Plenty of time,” she promises, pulling Harry down for a long, long kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over [here](https://newleafover.tumblr.com) and I love hearing from readers!


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